


Fangdrogeny (Sex and Violence)

by Shakespeares_Girl



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, CW Network RPF, Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Androgyny, Biting, Bloodplay, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:46:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shakespeares_Girl/pseuds/Shakespeares_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam Lambert likes his fangdrogeny, okay?  Not only does it provide excellent publicity, it keeps the people he loves safe from the Un-Vampire Alliance (UVA) and from other violent anti-fang groups.  All that changes when he meets Kris.  Suddenly, both he and Kris are getting death threats from the UVA.  Adam will do anything to keep Kris safe--but at what price?</p>
<p>(warnings for:  kidnap and hostage situations, some minor vampire gore, fetishized biting.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fangdrogeny

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the many wonderful people who helped with this fic. Off the top of my head, dante_s_hell, on LJ, who gave me the idea to cross it with CW RPS; moirariordon, my mixer, who is fabulous and whose early version of the mix inspired me through rewrites; and of course restless_jedi, my lovely, amazing, wonderful beta, without whom this story would be a mess, and who encourages comma violence. (*All names are LJ users*)
> 
> Mix is here: http://soapflake.livejournal.com/12824.html

_Blind Item from V! News_  
  
Which prominent and popular celebrity was seen at a fang-friendly dance club last night? We'll give you a hint: he was there without his SO, which probably means the other gossip rags will be running break-up news soon!  
  
* * *  
  
 _From an interview with superstar Adam Lambert_  
  
JH: So, Adam, I have to ask. Is it true?  
  
AL: Is what true, honey?  
  
JH: Are you . . . you know.  
  
AL: Gay? Ha ha! Yeah, baby, I'm afraid I'm off the market for you girls.  
  
JH: Ha ha, that's good to know, but that's not what I meant.  
  
AL: Then you're going to have to be more clear, sweetheart. I'm not sure what you're asking.  
  
JH: Are you . . . Are you fanged?  
  
AL: Oh, not you too? We were doing so well. There was even banter. (pauses) See, the thing is, I don't see why my status as fanged or not even matters.  
  
JH: Really? The rest of the world seems to think it matters a lot.  
  
AL: I'm not going to change who I am or what I do just because I tell you I'm a fang. It doesn't affect who I am. Fanged or normal, I'm still going to act the same, sing the same, look the same. It wouldn't affect my personality. All it affects is how people perceive me.  
  
* * *  
  
“Oh, hey,” Jensen smiles vaguely. “Jared, right?”  
  
“Right,” Jared grins back, toothy and ferocious. “And you're Jensen Ackles.”  
  
“I am,” Jensen admits. “You're a PA?”  
  
“Hmm,” Jared hums, non-committal and friendly enough that Jensen doesn't realize until much later that it wasn't actually an answer. “Feel free to tell me I'm being too forward,” Jared goes on, “but I would love to have coffee with you later.”  
  
“What, like a date?” Jensen teases.  
  
“Exactly like a date,” Jared nods playfully and grins, but Jensen only sees what Jared wants him to.  
  
“Well, I guess that might be nice. I don't really know a lot of people up here, aside from the ones on set with me twenty-four/seven,” he purses his lips and holds out a hand to Jared. “I'd love to have coffee. Name the date.”  
  
Jared takes Jensen's hand. “How about after shooting tonight? If you're free?”  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Jensen agrees, mild surprise coloring his voice. “Um, but could we make it dinner? I'm gonna be starved, we're doing stunt work all afternoon.”  
  
“Dinner . . . dinner would be fine, I suppose. As long as you're not too offended if I eat light,” Jared laughs. “I can never eat just after working a full day.”  
  
“I promise not to be offended. So, meet me by my trailer?” Jensen asks.  
  
“Done deal,” Jared nods. “You better go, they're about to make Weatherly stop purposely flubbing takes to make Jessica have to repeat that speech fifty times.”  
  
“Oh, cool, thanks,” Jensen says, grabbing a sandwich from the catering table and then jogging off toward set.  
  
* * *  
  
Jared's waiting for him when he's done for the day, takes his arm and leads him to a beat up old pickup truck. “Damn,” Jensen sighs, “haven't seen one of these since I left Texas to come to LA.”  
  
“Seems like I've had her forever,” Jared says fondly. “I miss Texas, sometimes.”  
  
“Yeah, it's pretty much nothing like Canada,” Jensen agrees, then blinks. “Hey, wait. You're from Texas?”  
  
“Originally, yeah,” Jared nods. “I've been from a lot of other places after that, and a few before, but I think Texas will always be home.”  
  
"I know what you mean,” Jensen nods. “You got a place in mind for supper?”  
  
“There's a steakhouse outside the city limits,” Jared smiles. “Just like back home. I think the owners are southern transplants. Sure as hell tastes like it.” Jensen blinks at that, but takes it how Jared intended him to.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Jensen agrees. Jared pulls open the passenger side door and leans against it, grinning at Jensen while he climbs inside.  
  
The restaurant is the kind of place that serves steak or chicken, and very little in between, mostly with heaping servings of potatoes, corn, and other vegetables on the side. Jensen's pleased to discover they serve bacon burgers, and orders one, with steak fries and beer and coleslaw. Jared orders his own serving of fries and a glass of the house red.  
  
They talk—or Jensen talks between bites and Jared sits and sips his wine and spears fries with his fork and smiles a lot. When the meal is over, Jared pays, then gives Jensen a look. “What do you say we get out of here and do something a little more adventurous?” Jared asks, flashing Jensen another toothy smile, this time letting him see the truth, see the fangs and the ever-so-slightly wrong pupils, gone too wide and too dark with a different sort of hunger. He holds out a hand. “That okay with you?”  
  
Jensen tilts his head and watches for a moment, then shakes his head. “Dude. We've known each other for what, three, four hours? Give me some credit. You can take me out again tomorrow and we'll see.” Jared grins. Jensen laughs. “That is seriously freaky man. It's like all of your teeth have points.”  
  
* * *  
  
Adam Lambert, prominent celebrity, superstar, and rock god, meets Kris Allen, songwriter and plaid wearer, on a Thursday. Adam thinks this is fitting, because he's always liked Thursdays. Kris doesn't actually remember that it was a Thursday. He does remember that he was wearing one of the pink sparkly plaid shirts his ex-girlfriend Katy had gotten him for his birthday last year. Later, Kris will claim it was the sparkle that caught Adam's eye, and the horror of the plaid that paralyzed him into staying long enough to get to know Kris. Adam just smiles and nods when Kris says things like this. He's never going to admit that he sort of liked the pink sparkly plaid, after all.  
  
Kris will readily admit that it's an odd choice to wear to a benefit concert (proceeds to go to the Invisible Children Fund), but it's all he's got clean, and really, pink sparkly plaid is not the strangest thing he sees by far. That honor would go to Adam Lambert himself, who happens to be wearing rhinestone studded leather pants and the spikiest jacket Kris has ever seen.  
  
“You are the most adorable thing I have ever seen,” Adam Lambert coos at him.  
  
“Um, thank you?” Kris answers, trying not to look too startled by this pronouncement. “You're um. You're not bad yourself?”  
  
“That a question or a statement?” Lambert wonders, then doesn't wait for Kris' answer. “So, are you actually singing today, or are you just here to support the cause?”  
  
“I'm singing,” Kris answers quickly. “I mean, I'd be here anyway, you know? It's a really good cause, you know? I'm saying you know a lot.”  
  
“A little,” Adam nods agreeably. “It's all right. You're nervous. I hope it's not me?”  
  
“No. Well, sort of. This whole thing. It's been a while since—but that's not important, you know? What's important is getting the word out there. Kids shouldn't have to hide from the government, and they shouldn't be forced into the army. It's—there's a line, you know? Decent people shouldn't be forced to do things for their government, and--”  
  
“I know,” Adam interrupts. “I know.” They stand there for a moment, then Adam says, “So, you support the cause, you sing, you have questionable taste in clothing. Would you also happen to have a name?”  
  
“Kris Allen,” Kris says, smiling in spite of himself. Or maybe not.  
  
“Kris Allen. Not Kris with a K? Not up and comer, American Idol Kris Allen?” Adam teases.  
  
“Yeah, that Kris Allen,” Kris admits.  
  
“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Kris,” Adam says, holding out his hand. Kris takes it, and they linger longer than is technically proper, but then again, that sort of thing is hard to gauge nowadays. “I'm Adam Lambert, if you hadn't already guessed.”  
  
“I did recognize you,” Kris responds without thinking. “You're hard to miss.”  
  
Adam laughs, and as he's about to respond, a harried looking woman dashes up to him. “Adam, you're late for your set,” she snaps.  
  
“Oh, Lane,” Adam seems amused more than anything. “You're here. Have you met Kris?”  
  
“Hi,” Lane says, arching an eyebrow at Kris. “Seriously. Onstage. Now.”  
  
“You've made me late,” Adam sighs at Kris. “You owe me a drink! I'll collect you after the show. Wear something that's not plaid!”  
  
* * *  
  
They go to a club. It's one of Adam's favorites. Kris looks a little—okay, a lot—out of place, until Adam plies him with cocktails and forces him out on the dance floor. And okay, he's still out of place, but now he's out of place and drunk, which is better, because he keeps clinging to Adam's arm, which is awesome.  
  
“I saw you,” Kris shouts over the noise of the music and the other people.  
  
“Saw me? Where?” Adam asks, laughing a little.  
  
“Well, not like, _saw you_ saw you. I saw your article—your interview,” Kris tells him.  
  
“My interview? Which one?”  
  
“The one for _Entertainment Weekly_ ,” Kris specifies.  
  
“Oh, _that_ one,” Adam nods. “What did you think?”  
  
“I think you're very lonely. And you seemed tired—or, not tired—weary. You were weary.”  
  
“That's very perceptive,” Adam says. “Not many people pick up on that.”  
  
“Weary has nothing to do with energy,” Kris points out. “But I liked that you didn't let that reporter box you in.”  
  
“You're not what you appear to be, Kristopher Allen,” Adam muses in Kris' ear.  
  
“Neither are you,” Kris shoots back.  
  
They dance until Kris collapses against Adam's chest, and Adam can practically smell the want coming off of him, but instead of doing anything about it, he presses a kiss to Kris' slack mouth and hauls him out of the club and into the waiting limousine. Kris spends most of the ride slumped lazily against Adam, huffing out the occasional laugh and playing with the studs on Adam's suit jacket. He shakes himself once, and looks around. “Where--?” he frowns.  
  
“Don't worry,” Adam soothes, running a cool hand down Kris' face. “I'm taking you back to your apartment.”  
  
“Oh,” Kris sighs, and sinks back down until his head's in Adam's lap. “I'm gonna be embarrassed about this tomorrow morning. Can't believe I let you buy me that many drinks.”  
  
Adam hums vague agreement and pets Kris' hair. He lays Kris out on the living room couch when they arrive, takes off his shoes and his jacket and then tucks a blanket over top of him and makes sure all the blinds are closed so he doesn't wake up to a sun-enhanced hangover.  
  
Kris doesn't wake up, even when Adam tells him goodnight and shuts the door harder than technically necessary.  
  
* * *  
  
It's ten in the morning when Kris finally manages to make his eyes stay open. His mouth feels like he's been eating sand, and his entire body hurts. He wrinkles his nose and slowly moves enough to stretch out his shoulders. “Ow,” Kris protests quietly. No need to aggravate the pounding in his skull. At least the room's dim.  
  
Carefully, he pulls himself upright and trudges into the kitchen. There's a post it note on the fridge in unfamiliar and slightly old-fashioned handwriting. “ _Lunch? Call me_ ” and a phone number. “Adam,” Kris says, then thinks about it. “Oh.” Well, that's not what he expected. Because he's not straight, but he's not the type of guy people like the androgynous, possibly fanged, completely glamorous Adam Lambert usually go for either. “I had a date with Adam Lambert,” he says, just to hear it out loud. He kinda likes it, even if he does sort of blush a little. It's totally the good kind of blushing, though.  
  
He calls the number.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Is this Adam Lambert?” Kris asks, politely.  
  
“Kris!” Adam sounds happy on the other end of the phone. “You found my note.”  
  
“I did,” Kris agrees. “Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Adam repeats. Then, “You're still hung over, aren't you?”  
  
“Little bit,” Kris confesses, drawing the words out. “But you said something about lunch?”  
  
Adam laughs, and it's a nice laugh, really, really nice. “Any time you say. Just name the place and the date.”  
  
“What if I want to meet this afternoon?” Kris asks, curious.  
  
“Wonderful. I'm free at noon, what about you?”  
  
“Huh,” Kris says. He can practically hear Adam's confusion, but he doesn't elaborate. “Huh,” he says again, just because he can.  
  
“Why 'huh'?” Adam finally asks.  
  
“Well, what about me? I mean, why me? I mean—I'm not really feeling very articulate just now, but it seems like you could have anyone you wanted. So why me? Why the plaid-wearing Southern boy who'd rather write songs than sing them most of the time and doesn't glitter at all, except when he's wearing presents from his ex-girlfriend?” Kris wonders. “Jeez, I ramble a lot when I'm incoherent.”  
  
“You're interesting,” Adam answers, not sounding at all bothered by Kris' outburst. “I like that you're not what I'd normally be interested in. You fascinate me. Maybe it's because you're different from the rest.”  
  
Kris takes a deep breath. “So. Lunch?”  
  
“Yes,” Adam says, firm. “Definitely.”  
  
“You're free at noon?”  
  
“Yes,” Adam says again. “I'll see you then?”  
  
Kris grins. It's his turn now. “Yes.”  
  
* * *  
  
The table is candle-lit, and Kris is feeling mellow and happy from the wine and the Italian food, and from being able to look his fill at Adam. Adam slouches lower in his chair and stares up at the sky—what they can see of it from under the canopy roof of the restaurant patio, anyway.  
  
“I love the stars,” Adam says, voice soft, but it startles Kris anyway.  
  
“Yeah,” he agrees.  
  
“No matter how old you get, the stars will always stay the same,” Adam sighs. “Or, mostly. There's a new one, just there,” he points, “and a few have burned out, but all the same, you can still see the same stars that were here centuries ago.”  
  
“Yeah,” Kris agrees again. “Sort of romantic, to think that maybe on the other side of the world, people just like us are seeing these same stars and dreaming the same dreams.” He thinks about it. “Or, you know. Were. Kinda sunny on the other side of the world just now, I think.”  
  
“Hmm. Probably,” Adam agrees. His eyes flick to the crescent moon, behind Kris' head. “Moon stays the same, too. Few footprints there now, I suppose, but at this distance you can't tell anyway.”  
  
“Wonder what it's like on the moon?” Kris asks. “I always thought that would be cool, you know? To see another world, someplace no one else has ever been. I wanted to be an astronaut for the longest time. Until I realized they had to know how to do all these really complicated mathematical equations and physics and exercise a lot. Then I decided I'd just chuck it all and be a musician.”  
  
Adam laughs, clear and happy. His laugh is warm and loud and solid, and Kris laughs too, for the sheer joy of laughing. “You're shitting me,” Adam giggles.  
  
“Maybe a little. But I did want to be an astronaut, and I did give it up when I found out about all the requirements,” Kris sighs, settling back. Adam smiles at him, and Kris asks, “What about you? What did you want to be when you were little?”  
  
There's a pause, and Kris wonders if he went too far, pried too deep. Adam likes to keep certain things private. But then he says, “It's okay, I'm just thinking,” like he can read Kris' mind, and Kris nods, satisfied, and settles back to wait for Adam's answer. “I guess the easy answer is that I wanted to be a pilot,” Adam says eventually. “I liked the uniforms, and I thought it would be glamorous to travel around the country and make out with stewardesses mid-air. I'm pretty sure I got that last part from a soap opera, too.”  
  
“So, what's the hard answer?” Kris asks.  
  
“The hard answer is I wanted to be normal. More than anything I wanted to be like everyone else. I wanted to be pretty and popular and well-liked. I wanted to have a girlfriend and go to prom, and I wanted to get married and maybe have kids. But I knew that would never happen. Maybe before I even knew what I was, I knew that wouldn't be possible for me.” Adam falls silent, and Kris thinks he's done, lets the silence stretch until it's comfortable again. But then Adam says, “I knew the minute I heard the opening notes of Ziggy Stardust I was never going to be normal. But from then on, it was okay.”  
  
They're silent for a while, staring up at the stars. Finally, Kris reaches across the table and laces his fingers through Adam's. “You know, I'm really glad you're not a pilot,” he murmurs.  
  
“Thank you,” Adam breathes, and his fingers tighten on Kris'.  
  
They dance again after dinner, and Kris lets himself be twirled and ground against, flings arms around Adam's neck and revels in being sweaty and hot and exercise-exhausted. He laughs in Adam's ear, their earlier seriousness forgotten as they move with the loud, thumping beat of the club. Kris thinks the club's name is something ridiculous, like “Flatline” or “Gnaw,” maybe. And he's pretty sure the club is fang-friendly, to say the least. There's a woman with her teeth sunk viciously into a blond, femme-boy Brad Pitt wannabe, and a girl who doesn't look older than fifteen sucking the neck of a thirty-something. Kris just grins and holds tighter to Adam, bites his lip and throws his head back.  
  
He feels electric and alive, and that feeling is only compounded when Adam leans down and licks into his mouth, sucks on his bottom lip and grins against Kris' mouth, turns the invasion into a kiss, slick and hot and hard, and Kris groans and laughs and shoves his hands up into Adam's hair, fingers splaying and tugging, and Adam laughs, too, when he finally stops kissing Kris long enough to spare the breath. Kris isn't ashamed to admit that he wishes it would never end—this night, that laugh, the way he feels like if you gave him wings, he could fly. It's exhilarating and wild and everything Kris didn't know he was missing.  
  
Adam catches Kris' face in his hands and kisses him again, all pretense of dancing gone. Kris wishes they could keep kissing forever.  
  
* * *  
  
Adam gets home, still riding the high of his night with Kris. _Souls bared, thoughts shared_ , he muses, grinning wide and locking himself into his big house for the night. For a while, he bounces around the rooms, adrenaline high from the dancing, but he settles enough to check his email.  
  
There's a single new item in his inbox, and he clicks it without really thinking. It simply says, “Death to fangsluts.” Adam laughs and deletes the email. He doesn't associate with fangsluts, and if someone thinks _he's_ a fangslut, well, okay, but really, really no.  
  
He can't stop smiling, thoughts sliding back to Kris as he heads for the bathroom to take off his make up and start the shower. No matter how much he wants to focus on other things, all he can think about is the feel of Kris' body beneath his hands, the way Kris threw himself into the dancing. He laughs again as he steps into the shower. It's been too long since he's felt this way about someone.  
  
* * *  
  
He takes Kris to the theater on Friday, one of this season's supposed hits. They leave the theater, and Adam feels wild, high on life and on music and exhilarated beyond what he's used to having to handle. He wants to push Kris against the walls, the car, haul him close, chew on his neck or sink teeth into a shoulder, or just kiss him until they're both gasping for air.  
  
“Man,” Kris laughs beside him. “I feel like _I_ was the one performing.”  
  
“I know, right?” Adam grins, grabbing hold of Kris' wrist and tugging him out of the theater and into the night. “We should go do something else, to work off the excess energy.”  
  
“I just want to eat,” Kris groans. “Overindulge, you know? Something with lots of carbs and sugar.”  
  
“I know an all-night bakery,” Adam suggests. “They serve pastries and coffee around the clock.”  
  
“Sounds perfect,” Kris agrees, and Adam waves down his driver and gives him the name of the bakery.  
  
There's a moment of tense, over-charged silence after that, but then Adam giggles, and Kris snorts at him, and then they're in each others' arms, and Adam controls himself to keep from biting long enough that Kris surges up and kisses him.  
  
“You're amazing,” Adam whispers to him, moving from Kris' mouth to his jaw.  
  
“Amazing?” Kris repeats.  
  
“Amazing. I can't stop thinking about you, you know, how you feel under my hands, what you'd taste like if I could get you on my tongue--” Adam stops and sucks in a breath while Kris shudders against him.  
  
“Adam, I--”  
  
“Yeah,” Adam agrees. “But wow, this is so not the right time. We're here.”  
  
Kris grins sheepishly and they get out and go stand in line for the pastry shop. Kris orders a chocolate croissant, and Adam orders them both coffee, strong and dark and sweet, and they wait at a table until their order is called.  
  
“So, all this time with me and you still haven't asked,” Adam teases.  
  
“Asked what?” Kris frowns, genuinely confused.  
  
“About me. If I really do have fangs. Most people ask that first thing.” Adam shrugs. He didn't even realize he was going to bring it up until just now. He's long past caring what people think about him, but for some reason, Kris feels different.  
  
“Well,” Kris drawls, “I guess if you want me to know, you'll tell me. But like you say in your interviews, it's really your business and none of mine. You're not threatening—not in any way that counts. So yeah. You'll tell me when you want to.”  
  
Adam grins at Kris. “And if I had fangs? What then?” He takes Kris' hand and turns it over, exposing the wrist.  
  
“Long as you ask before you bite,” Kris says, all nonchalance and innocence, and Adam can't help it, he takes Kris' wrist between his teeth and hums, licking at Kris' pulse. It makes Kris laugh, and then their order is called, and they both forget—mostly—all about the joke.  
  
* * *  
  
It hits papers the next morning— _Lambert's New Fangslut_ is plastered all over the gossip rags, from the _Sun Times_ to _People_. And of course, some enterprising soul had snapped a photo right as Adam had bitten, so everything gets cast in the worst possible light.  
  
Adam has meetings all day, with everyone from his publicists (who want the photos pulled immediately) to his label (who think it's amazing publicity and are actually spreading the photos). Finally he has a meeting with Lane.  
  
“Do you think you could get my publicist and my label on the same page about how we're spinning this whole thing?” he asks, lazy and happy from last night's date. Aside from the paparazzi, he's counting it a total success.  
  
“You have bigger problems than just your publicity,” Lane snaps. “You've got a fucking _fame-whore._ ”  
  
“What? No. Wait, what are you talking about?”  
  
“Kristopher Allen,” she spits the name like it's poisonous. “He tried leak your relationship to the press and now I've got to--”  
  
“No he didn't,” Adam interrupts.  
  
“What? Yes he did, who else--”  
  
“Okay, first, why would he call himself a fangslut? That's just stupid. He should have made himself into a victim. And second, he has no reason to leak anything about me, or us. We haven't even made it official yet,” Adam explains.  
  
“Are you sure?” Lane demands.  
  
“Yes. And I haven't _told_ him, so anything he knows or doesn't know is just conjecture at this point.” Adam smirks. “Still think he's selling me out?”  
  
“No, damn it all. That means you were just _incredibly_ stupid. Damage control. Maybe a public break up?” Lane frowns. “This needs consideration.”  
  
“I'm not breaking up with him. Why don't you like him?” Adam quirks an eyebrow. “And also, why can't you call him by his name?”  
  
“Fine. No break ups.”  
  
“His name is Kris.”  
  
“Well, if you won't break up with him, you have to tell him,” Lane decides. “Impress upon him the importance of keeping it a secret.”  
  
“I'm not telling Kris just because you say to,” Adam snorts. “Although fair warning? I'm probably taking him out dancing tonight to blow off steam.”  
  
“Tell him, or I will,” Lane threatens.  
  
“You are not scary. Monte is scary. Brad can be scary. You have lost all your scariness. Because you cannot call my plaid-wearing boyfriend by his first name. Kris. Say it with me,” Adam teases, “Kris.”  
  
“Shut up,” Lane grumbles. “ _Kris_ needs to know what he's getting into.”  
  
“He does,” Adam says simply.  
  
Unfortunately for Lane, she can't argue with that.


	2. Bite Fetish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra Note! I am fudging the time Chelsea Lately tapes. In RL, it would start at about 2:00-3:30, but we're pretending she starts at 5:00, and that she takes until about 7:30-8:00 to finish. If that doesn't work for you, you can pretend she was running late--or one of her guest stars was--and they had to postpone shooting for a while.

Dancing turns out to be just as disastrous as the bakery had been. Adam gets photographed kissing Kris' neck, and there are even more tabloid headlines the next day, this time declaring “Glambert Can't Keep Teeth Out Of Charming Southern Songwriter.”  
  
Kris ends up coming with him to his next meeting with Lane. Lane demands to meet him, and Adam can't say no to that. It sort of goes downhill from there, though.  
  
Lane, who is currently alternating between glaring at Adam and glaring at Kris, raises her lip in a growl. “Who exactly are you, Kris?”  
  
“Kristopher Neil Allen, ma'am,” Kris grins, looking a little nervous, but mostly amused. “I'm a songwriter.”  
  
“A songwriter?”  
  
“Yes, ma'am,” Kris nods.  
  
Lane looks ready to rip Kris' head off for calling her “ma'am,” but Kris just smiles at her, all Southern charm and innocence. He's really very good at the innocent act. Adam approves of his shamelessness. “That's all well and good,” Lane snarls, “but I can't have an international superstar dating a songwriter.”  
  
“I don't see why not,” Kris says. “It's the truth, after all.”  
  
“Truth has nothing to do with it,” Lane snaps. “It's all about image!”  
  
“I like my image,” Adam puts in. “I especially like it with him. Kris is a good influence on me. We can spin it that way, all right? Kris levels my insane rock star, keeps my potentially fanged self from horrible and naughty things.”  
  
“I know all about you and your potentially fanged self,” Lane points out. “I know exactly what your idea of naughty is, and it wouldn't be stopped by one Southern songwriter with pretty eyes and an apparent bite fetish.”  
  
“You know that, and I know that,” Adam grins, “but the general public doesn't know it. And the ones who do like me this way anyway.”  
  
“Fine,” Lane finally agrees, unable to do much else. “We'll do things your way. As long as Kris says it's okay--”  
  
“That suits me just fine,” Kris nods, agreeably.  
  
Lane makes a sound that reminds Adam of a scream, only her lips are closed. And sort of white. She might actually be apoplectic. Adam hasn't seen anyone look apoplectic in a very long time. He's forgotten how entertaining it is.  
  
“Baby, I am keeping you,” Adam announces, grinning at Kris across the conference table.  
  
* * *  
  
“You know,” Kris says, thoughtful from where he lounges on a recliner in Adam's living room. “I haven't had this much fun in a really long time.”  
  
“You call running from the paps with a theoretical vampire fun?” Adam asks, arching an eyebrow.  
  
“Yeah,” Kris nods. “I do, actually. Way more fun than I had with the last theoretical vampire I knew.”  
  
“Okay, now you're teasing,” Adam grins.  
  
“It's easy with you. I've never had something like that before,” Kris sighs, getting up from Adam's recliner and flopping over onto the couch.  
  
“What?” Adam asks, lazily lifting his head from where he's stretched out along the back of the couch.  
  
Kris waves a hand. “I can't really explain it. That thing we have, where we just know what the other is thinking, and it's easy to get along, because we understand the other one's point of view, even if we don't agree. And how we just fit together,” he finishes, sliding around until he's lying on Adam's chest. “I like the way we fit together.”  
  
“I like it too,” Adam sighs. Then, softly, as if he's hoping Kris won't hear, “Would you be mad if I bit you for real?” Kris cranes his neck so he can look at Adam, question in his eyes. “I'm serious, Kris.”  
  
“No,” he whispers back. “I wouldn't be mad.”  
  
“Even if I bit too deep, took too much? Even if it scarred?” Adam presses.  
  
“You won't,” Kris says.  
  
Adam's pretty sure he's hallucinated Kris, but he's a solid weight atop his chest, and when he reaches out his hand and takes Kris' wrist, it's real and solid beneath his fingers. Kris shivers. “Sorry,” Adam says, dropping his hand.  
  
“No, it's okay,” Kris shrugs again. “Your fingers are cold, that's all.”  
  
“I really want to bite you,” Adam says, sort of sudden and shocking even to himself.  
  
“So why don't you?” Kris asks.  
  
Adam can't help but laugh. “That's all? No shock I'm a fang? No protestations or playing coy?”  
  
“Nah, not really my style. And to be honest, you stare at my neck a lot. It's not that shocking,” Kris teases.  
  
“Lane told you,” Adam sighs. “I thought she might have.”  
  
“Eh, I had it mostly figured out,” Kris shrugs. “Now are you gonna bite me, or what?”  
  
“I can't bite you!” Adam protests.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“I never bite on the first date?” Adam tries.  
  
“We've had four dates,” Kris points out.  
  
“The first two don't count,” Adam waves a hand and sinks back into his couch. “If the paparazzi don't catch you, it didn't happen.”  
  
“Bull,” Kris laughs, twisting his head even farther, and leaning toward Adam, the stretch of his neck enticing and bare. “Come on, I know you want to. And where did you learn to count?”  
  
With a laugh, Adam gives in. He wraps his arms around Kris, pulls him close. “Hold very still,” he warns, then sinks his teeth into the white stretch of Kris' neck. Kris groans, shuddery and helpless. Adam curls his lip up, letting blood ooze from between his teeth and trail down the back of Kris' neck. Kris tastes like sunshine and summertime and Oreo cookies, the sharp tang of blood overpowered by the taste of Kris. This is why Adam doesn't indulge very often, this is why he doesn't bite people. When you drink straight from the tap, you can taste the person, and Adam's tastes don't favor the fangsluts he can find in the clubs or on the streets. But Kris. Kris. He tastes like everything Adam's loved in the past, everything he will love in the future. It's easy to drink from him, easy to get lost in the flavor and the flood of feeling. He gasps against Kris' neck and sucks harder for a moment, then stops.  
  
Adam lets go, licks along the sweep of Kris' neck, chasing the blood. He laps it up, then sucks at the marks he's made, the little pinpricks from his incisors yielding blood for him. Kris is shaking underneath Adam's hands, his mouth. Adam smiles as he sucks and kisses and licks, chewing gently at the bite mark, listening with pleasure to the noises Kris makes, the way he falls apart in Adam's hands. Kris arches as Adam bites at his ear, then shudders, hard. Adam can smell sex on the air, and he rears back, pushes Kris away by his shoulders.  
  
Kris looks up at him with glazed eyes, panting hard as he clutches at the front of Adam's shirt and comes down from his orgasm. “Oh,” he breathes, his head falling forward to rest on Adam's chest. “Oh.”  
  
Adam kisses his forehead, his temple, his hair. “So good for me,” he breathes. “Baby, you were so good.” Too good, if you ask Adam. Because now that he's had a taste of Kris, he's not about to let him go. He touches gentle fingers to the sore spot on Kris' neck, and Kris shivers and tucks his face into Adam's shoulder. “So good,” Adam praises again.  
  
“Thank you,” Kris whispers.  
  
* * *  
  
Adam declares that since Kris is sticking around for a while, he needs to meet Adam's family. This, as it turns out, does not mean his actual family—his mother and father and brother, who aren't fanged and live in San Diego—but the family he's built for himself in LA. Kris agrees to it without thinking. Of course he wants to meet Adam's family, whoever he considers close enough to deserve the label. What he didn't count on was the “quiet house party” Adam promised actually being not all that quiet.  
  
The entire group of friends Adam calls his family is noisy and boisterous and energetic. Brad ends up table dancing half way through dinner, and he isn't even drunk. Apparently, this is the least unusual thing Brad's done at a party all week.  
  
Kris also meets Adam's band—Tommy, who wears creepers and talks about vampires in the same breath as Freddy Kruger; Monte, who brought his wife, Lisa, and his daughters, and sits back and smiles when the others start getting crazy; Cam, who Kris can't get a good read on because she keeps sneaking away to make out with one of Adam's backup dancers; LP, who looks Were, but might just be pushing the image because he can. They're all nice to Kris. There's also Isaac and Sophie, one or both of whom Adam knows through the fang network, Cassidy, who owns a fanged and furred-friendly clothing line and design studio, and Allison, a red-haired girl who bounces even more than Brad and keeps telling stories about the margarita mixes she's requested at clubs.  
  
“The best was totally the blue raspberry one, from Bite Me!” she enthuses. “But the Twisted Cherry from Teeth and the watermelon from Gnaw were awesome, too!”  
  
“Baby, next time we go clubbing, I'm buying you a Dirty Girl Scout and introducing you to the ways of hard liquor,” Brad declares, bouncing between Kris and Allison. “Hey, Krissy. Adam bite you for real yet?”  
  
“Butt out, Cheeks,” Adam interrupts. His fingers curl protectively around Kris' neck, though, and Brad grins. “None of your business.” Kris wants to go pliant under Adam's fingers, but before he can do much more than lean into the touch, Adam's pulling his hand away again. “Dinner's on in fifteen minutes. Spread the word, bitches!”  
  
* * *  
  
As everyone trails into the dining room after Brad—who keeps threatening to start a conga line—Monte pulls Adam aside. They wait until the last guest is in the dining room, then look at each other.  
  
“I know what you're going to say,” Adam sighs. “You have that look. Okay, go ahead. You may as well say it now, so you can stop looking like you're about to have a stroke. Not that I'm going to actually take your advice this time.”  
  
“Oh, heaven forbid you'd do that,” Monte teases, rolling his eyes. “Think about it, though. Coming out isn't a bad thing. Look what it did for your career last time.”  
  
Adam arches an eyebrow. “I assume you're referring to the time I came out as homosexual?”  
  
“Yeah. Album sales rocketed. Your name was everywhere. People still talk about the Lambert Controversy,” Monte points out.  
  
“And I'm forever labeled as 'that gay singer.' No thanks, Monte. I don't want to add to the epithet. Being 'that gay singer' is bad enough, I don't want to be 'that gay fang who thinks he can sing,'” Adam scoffs.  
  
“It wouldn't be like that,” Monte says softly.  
  
“It wouldn't have to be, no,” Adam agrees, voice going just as soft. “But I have more reasons than just my love of privacy keeping me from coming out.” Monte snorts at that. “Don't snort, you sound like a sneezing dog.”  
  
Monte fakes a howl.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, play up your stereotype,” he grins. “Seriously, though. What do you think they'd do to you if I came out as a fang? Hmm? You'd have to quit, because if you didn't, child services would take your kids away. Fangs are dangerous, and you shouldn't let children around them. Brad would lose any relevance and become 'the twink who dated the fang who thinks he's a singer.' Tommy would be labeled a fangslut and wouldn't ever get any jobs with normal bands. Lane's career would be questioned, and she'll either end up being labeled as mismanaging me, or helping me hide. And Kris—” Adam takes a breath. “Besides, people will want to know why I haven't come out as fanged before.”  
  
“All right,” Monte relents. “I suppose then, our deal will just have to stand.”  
  
Adam nods. “I promise,” he swears. “I will come out as fanged as soon as you come out as furred.”  
  
“It's a deal,” Monte sighs. “But only because I know I can't convince you otherwise.”  
  
“We'd better get in there,” Adam gestures vaguely toward the dining room. “I'm serving steaks, and yours is extra rare. Wouldn't want it to get cold, now would we?”  
  
* * *  
  
Adam gets another death threat that night. Everyone's gone home except for Kris, who's crashed out in Adam's bed. Adam checks his email, just like every night, and there's a message from the UVA. He clicks it, curious, and frowns.  
  
Fangsluts and Fangs are all the same. Don't think you're above justice, just because you don't take a side. Your penance is coming.  
  
Death to Fangs.  
  
Death to Fangsluts.  
  
It's a little more specific than before, but still, he's gotten worse from politicians than this. Shaking off his unease, he deletes the file then goes to check on Kris.  
  
* * *  
  
Lane is shouting. It's not really unexpected, although it's never welcome. But Adam figures he'll drift along and tune it out, until-- “. . . can't believe you deleted it!”  
  
“Wait, what did he delete?” Kris asks, sitting up from his slouch and looking over at Adam. “You deleted stuff from your fan mail account?”  
  
“I—I did? Maybe? Um. What did I delete?” Adam asks, confused. “What are we talking about?”  
  
“The death threats against Kris, Adam,” Lane hisses. She likes hissing, Adam muses absently.  
  
“Kris gets death threats?” he wonders.  
  
“Well, obviously not, if you delete them,” Kris mumbles, a grin tugging one side of his face up.  
  
“This is serious,” Lane snaps. “You both need to stop daydreaming about fucking each other and pay attention, because they're already promising protesters at the Tonight Show taping.”  
  
Kris shrugs. “Everyone protests the Tonight Show,” he points out. “It's like, a thing.”  
  
“In-house protesters. Some of the network's own people are threatening action,” Lane expands.  
  
“Oh,” Kris says mildly. Adam can tell he's surprised by the news, but Lane doesn't know Kris' moods like Adam does.  
  
Before Lane can level her acid at Kris, Adam speaks up. “We'll deal with it. Double my security, get Kris his own detail. Hire an armored car. Oh, or I could arrive in a casket!”  
  
“And out yourself on national TV?” Kris asks, voice still mild. Adam realizes he's worried. The blander Kris sounds, the worse he's fretting.  
  
“Okay, not a casket,” Adam amends. “But maybe coming out wouldn't be such a bad thing?”  
  
“You absolutely cannot come out of the casket now,” Lane declares. Both Adam and Kris turn to stare at her.  
  
“Aren't you the one who's been pushing me to come out in the first place,” Adam frowns.  
  
“Do you understand anything about your own PR? If you come out now, your fans will love you, but your detractors and haters will point to this as reason enough to destroy you. Your life, your work, your band, your family, and yes, Kris, even you, all of it will be taken from you,” Lane explains. “You will never see Monte or Brad or Tommy again. You won't even be allowed to communicate with Alli or Lisa and the kids. Your dancers will be black-listed as fang-friendly, your music will be pulled off the airwaves. And Kris? Kris will be locked up somewhere quiet and remote and sunny, just to ensure you won't be able to find him.”  
  
Adam considers this. “You're exaggerating to make a point,” he finally decides.  
  
“Yes, a little. But the basic facts are true. You will end up cut off from the ones you love, with only the vampire community to help you. And you're not on good terms with the vampire community at the moment,” Lane reminds him.  
  
“Are they still mad about the Cleveland performance?” Adam winces.  
  
“Just a little.” Lane glares, unblinking.  
  
Kris blinks, confused. “What happened in Cleveland?”  
  
Adam and Lane stay silent, staring each other down.  
  
“Guys?” Kris tries again. “What happened in Cleveland?”  
  
“I fed from Brooke onstage. She was my donor at the time. I asked her before the performance if it was okay. But the anti-fang factions all went up in arms about it, assuming it was unplanned, like when I kissed Tommy at the AMAs. It was barely a mouthful, and it looks like stage blood in all the video. I managed to convince pretty much everyone who counted that it was all faked to get a reaction. But the vampire community knows better, and they aren't pleased that I'm making an exhibition of something they consider ritualistic and sacred.”  
  
“Never mind them, they aren't the ones who represent the most immediate threat to you,” Lane snaps, rolling her eyes. “We need to figure out where the dearth of the threats are coming from and try and protect both you and Kris.”  
  
“Why would anyone want to kill me?” Kris pipes up. “I mean, no offense, but I get why they want to kill you, Adam. You're big and bold and not afraid of who you are and not afraid to make a statement with it. And you sparkle. And you're gay, and potentially fanged, which are two more reasons to kill you. But why me?”  
  
“Because,” Lane sighs, another eye roll accompanying her explanation. “Killing you would not only be an insult to Adam, it's one of the few ways they can actually hurt him without direct sunlight and consecrated wooden stakes.”  
  
Kris looks over at Adam and Adam nods, slowly. “It's true. The insult alone would be enough to force me to take action, assuming my status as fanged comes out. And it would have to, at that point, because only as a fang can I avenge your death, and to not do that would further alienate me from the vampire community. But as a man, as a person . . . your death would . . .” Adam reaches over and touches the pinprick scars on Kris' neck. “You mean enough to me your death would be crippling.”  
  
“So, you two are hopelessly in love. Great. Now I just have to figure out a way for you to pay attention to what I'm telling you,” Lane grumbles in the background.  
  
“All right, all right,” Adam laughs, turning back to Lane. “I'm listening!”  
  
* * *  
  
Despite the in-house protesters, the Tonight Show goes smoothly enough. Kris waits with Lane at Adam's house, and Adam goes with extra security to the studio. Nothing goes wrong, the protests are fairly peaceful, and Jay Leno is unusually polite. He manages to get one barb in—about Adam's age, of all things—and Adam fields it easily enough, turning the question back on Leno and smiling through it all.  
  
Of course, Adam's always been good with an audience, and the performance part of the show goes even better than the interview. Then it's over, and when Adam gets home he kisses Kris, then says to Lane, “See? I told you it would all be fine.”  
  
Kris decides to stay the night. When Lane leaves, Adam sends Kris to bed before he checks his email. A new message from the UVA is waiting.  
  
We warned you.  
  
Death to Fangs.  
  
Death to Fangsluts.  
  
“They've really got to get some new material,” Adam decides, then deletes the file.  
  
* * *  
  
Adam has an interview with Ellen the next day, and he brings Kris along since Lane can't babysit him this time. Kris stays in the greenroom and watches while Adam fields questions about Kris himself this time.  
  
“So, are the rumors true?” Ellen asks, once they're seated.  
  
“Which ones?” Adam shoots back.  
  
“All of them!” she laughs. “Nah, I mean the ones about your new boyfriend.”  
  
“Oh, those rumors,” Adam smiles.  
  
“Yeah, those rumors,” Ellen echoes.  
  
“Well, which rumor specifically? I can't just blanket answer that, after all,” Adam teases. “That would be telling.”  
  
“Well, do you have a boyfriend, first of all?” Ellen starts. “I think establishing that would probably be helpful.”  
  
“Very helpful,” Adam agrees. “I have—I don't know if you'd call him a boyfriend.” Adam takes a minute to frown for the cameras.  
  
“Why not boyfriend?” Ellen wonders. “Are you not like that? Not that involved?”  
  
“No, we're more involved, if anything. He doesn't seem like a boyfriend because he's so much more than that to me. More like—like a partner, you know?” he elaborates.  
  
“Yeah, I know how that goes. But you, this is soon, right? I mean, you've been officially dating for how long?”  
  
“Officially? I think it's four weeks now? But we've been close ever since we met.”  
  
“And where did you meet? No one seems quite sure on that one,” Ellen asks.  
  
“Oh, we met at that benefit concert for Invisible Children,” Adam laughs. “He was wearing pink sparkly plaid. I couldn't take my eyes off him.”  
  
“It would certainly be hard to look away,” Ellen agrees.  
  
They move on to more benign questions after that. Ellen is one of the few hosts who doesn't ask about his fangdrogeny, which is nice. Once they're done, he collects Kris and they hurry out to the car.  
  
Outside the studio, though, there are picket lines, and these aren't as calm as the ones from last night. Adam frowns, and Kris presses close to him.  
  
“You okay?” he asks.  
  
“Yeah, I think so,” Adam nods. “Stay close to me. I don't like this.”  
  
“Sure,” Kris agrees.  
  
They exit the studio, Adam's security trailing behind like they're supposed to. Kris stays as close to Adam as he can get, feeling the tension radiating off him. Adam's hand clenches in the fabric of Kris' shirt, right at the small of his back, and Kris wraps an arm around Adam's waist. Kris stumbles partway to the waiting car, and the crowd cheers at his misfortune. Adam growls, low enough that only Kris can sense the noise, the vocalization vibrating through his arm where he's hanging on.  
  
“I'm okay,” he says quietly. “Keep going.”  
  
Adam's hand at his back tightens its grip, and Kris finds himself hauled along, barely able to keep up, Adam's pulling him so fast. “Don't like them staring at you,” Adam grits out by way of apology. “It's rude and they know it.”  
  
“Hey,” Kris soothes. “It's okay. I knew I what I was signing up for. You're not exactly subtle, you know. Your face is in the tabloids every other day.”  
  
Adam smiles a little at that. “I know,” he sighs, bundling Kris into the car, his hands proprietary and confident as he boosts Kris in and slides him across the seat. “I don't like it, though.” As soon as they're both in, Kris slides back across the bench seat and curls up against Adam's side. Adam smiles down at him, surprised and pleased at the affection. “You shouldn't do that,” he warns, only half teasing. “I might end up biting you again.”  
  
“I hope so,” Kris smirks back, but the look in Adam's eyes has him biting his lip and pushing up closer than ever. “When we get back, yeah? Don't want to lose it in front of the driver.”  
  
“You're free the rest of the day?” Adam asks, and when Kris confirms it with a nod, he wraps his arms around Kris and nuzzles his nose into Kris' hair. “Not anymore, baby. The rest of the day, you're mine.”  
  
* * *  
  
Adam pushes Kris through the door. “I want you in the bedroom, baby,” he hisses into Kris' ear. “I'm going to lay you down and spread you out and bite you until you shake apart in my hands.”  
  
Kris swallows audibly, and starts to step away from Adam to head for the bedroom, but Adam's arm comes around his waist and stops him, pulling him back to his chest. “Adam?”  
  
“First? I want to taste you right here, willing and eager and begging for me,” Adam purrs, licking the side of Kris' neck. Kris shivers in his arms and makes an eager little noise. Adam laughs.  
  
“God, Adam, don't tease, just do it—bite me already!” Kris demands.  
  
“Pushy,” Adam laughs again. But he drops the glamour and scrapes his teeth along Kris' neck, feeling the flutter of his veins beneath the skin, relishing the way Kris' head just drops to the side, letting Adam take what he wants without question. “Oh, honey, you are so lucky I'm in love with you.”  
  
Kris giggles, and tilts his head impossibly further. Tendons stretch and muscles pull and Adam really can't help himself. He leans down and bites. “Oh god,” Kris breathes, voice warbling a little, enough for Adam to know he really, really appreciates the fact that Adam's fanged. “Jesus, harder.”  
  
Adam doesn't comply this time, though, just releases the bite and laps at the blood spilling down Kris' neck. “Oh, sweetheart, you're so pretty like this. Wanna arrange you just how I like and take fucking pictures, wanna let the whole world see how gorgeous you are when you want to be bitten, how you just tip your head and bare your throat and let me take.”  
  
“Adam,” Kris moans. “God, please--”  
  
But Adam just smiles and lets the blood trickle slowly down Kris' neck, watches as it catches on his collarbone and drips slowly off to stain his shirt. “Go get on the bed, on your back. Leave your clothes, I want to rip them off you.”  
  
“Jesus,” Kris pants, and stumbles forward and toward the bedroom. He's barely in place before Adam crawls on top of him, ripping open the plaid button-down and sending buttons flying. Adam grabs the collar and yanks, ripping the back of the shirt open and pulling the sleeves off Kris' arms. He tosses the pieces away, and Kris makes a noise like a whimper, but broken.  
  
“Shh, baby, I've got you,” Adam hushes, pulling Kris up by the front of his t-shirt, so he's straddling Adam's lap where Adam kneels on the bed. He takes the hem of Kris' t-shirt in his hands and rips, the material shearing away nicely. “Gonna bite you all over,” Adam murmurs, low and soothing. “Mark up all that pretty pale skin, so everyone knows who you belong to.” Adam shudders along with Kris, images of Kris sprawled on the bed, bites at his wrists, elbows, scattered across thighs and groin and belly, sucked into his collarbone and neck and shoulders, bright-rust-red smears of drying blood oozing and dripping and pooling against Kris' pretty skin. “Oh yeah, gonna mark you up good. Fucking ruin you.”  
  
“Please,” Kris moans, clutching tight to Adam's shoulders. “I need--”  
  
Adam kisses him, long, sucking kisses, teasing Kris with the promise of what's to come. With a sigh he pushes Kris back, lays him out on the bed and jerks his jeans off, taking socks and shoes and boxers along with them. Kris lays there, naked and open and waiting, and Adam can't help it, he bites the fleshy part of Kris' calf. Kris moans and shakes and tries not to jerk too much and rip a chunk out of his leg. Adam lets go and bites again, sinking teeth into Kris' thighs, sucks hot and hard at the vein in his groin. He listens to the way Kris moans, whimpers, begs for him with every movement and inarticulate noise. Adam bites Kris' belly, the soft curve just above his hips, the place just beneath his ribs. He moves higher, bites Kris' pecs, and one perfect bite mark just over his heart. Kris arches for that one, crying out his pleasure shaking and almost pushing himself over the edge, but Adam lets go before he gets there and bites shoulders, collarbones, biceps and elbows and wrists. He feels like he's going so quickly, but it's already been nearly a half an hour. He's bitten everywhere, now, except Kris' back and ass. He'll save that for another time, though. Right now, he wants nothing more than to sink teeth into Kris' neck and claim him for all the world to see.  
  
So he does. His fangs part Kris' flesh easily, breaking skin and cleaving muscle. He sucks, licks, tugs, and Kris writhes under him, pushing his hips against Adam's thigh, his fingers tight on Adam's shoulders, keening a high sound that makes Adam want to hold and pet and praise. He will, as soon as this is over. He tugs again, once, twice, three times, and Kris arches beneath him. Adam smells the sharp scent of sex and smiles. He lets Kris' neck go, then licks soothingly at the hurt. He sits up and back, studies his handiwork. Kris is covered in bite marks, tender and sore and some still bleeding, others dried and crusted. Much as he'd like to leave him this way, Adam knows better, so he gets up and goes to the bathroom to get a washcloth, the peroxide, and a few cotton balls. He comes back and cleans away the blood and come, then wipes peroxided cotton balls over the bites, just to make sure Kris doesn't get an infection. When he's finished, he tosses the whole mess over the side of the bed and pulls Kris into his arms, stroking his back and pressing carefully at the bite on his neck, right next to the almost invisible marks from their first bite.  
  
“Talk to me, sweetheart,” Adam softly orders. “Tell me what you're feeling.”  
  
“Happy,” Kris sighs, and snuggles into Adam's chest. “Let me stay here?”  
  
“Of course you can stay,” Adam promises, his arms tightening around Kris before he reaches down to pull the sheets over them. Adam's still fully clothed, but Kris is naked and probably cold, what with all the blood loss. “You sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up.”  
  
“Okay,” Kris agrees, and dozes off in Adam's arms.  
  
Adam wants to watch him sleep, but he wants to check his email one more time. Adam gets up, intending to slip into the living room and work on his laptop for a while, but he glances back at Kris and sighs. Instead, he pulls off his own clothes and slips into his favorite lounge pants, then climbs back in bed with Kris. He pulls the blanket up from the foot of the bed and wraps it around them both, then tugs Kris back into his arms. He can deal with everything else later. Right now, what he really wants is to watch Kris sleep.  
  
* * *  
  
It comes as a complete shock to Adam when he actually wakes up the next morning. He's made a habit of not sleeping unless it's going to look creepy for him not to, so the fact that he felt relaxed enough to sleep with Kris is frankly astonishing. It's also sweet and nice and normal and domestic, and Adam's stomach sort of flips over a few times when he realizes just how truly awesome it would be to wake up like this every day for the rest of his life.  
  
Kris blinks awake a few minutes later, and turns in Adam's arms so he can hide his eyes from the morning sun. “Hey,” he mumbles into Adam's chest.  
  
“Hey,” Adam sighs back. “I slept.”  
  
“Well?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Did you sleep well?” Kris repeats his question.  
  
“Oh. I suppose I did,” Adam replies, thinking it over half-distractedly. Kris smells like day-old blood and morning and sleep. Without meaning to, Adam pushes Kris flat on his back and sits up to study him. The bite marks are all bruised purple around the rust-red pinpricks, and the mark on Kris' neck is just calling out to be bitten again, to change that purple bruise to dark blue and make Kris beg for it. Adam blinks a few times, shakes himself out of it. “Next time I'm leaving your clothes on,” he decides. “You're too tempting like this, spread out and ready for me.”  
  
“You wanna bite me again?” Kris asks, surprised.  
  
“I want more than that,” Adam admits. “But I won't take it yet. I have plans for today that don't include tying you to my bed and making you beg, unfortunately.”  
  
“That is unfortunate,” Kris agrees. “I would have begged so pretty.” Adam looks down at him, and Kris grins back up, cheeky and happy and alive.  
  
“One day,” Adam promises, and bends down to kiss Kris. When Kris arches up to meet him, Adam has to pull away before he bites again. “Okay. You get dressed and shower. I have a few emails to send, and then we'll see about breakfast.”  
  
“Pancakes?”  
  
“Pancakes,” Adam agrees easily. “But only if you hurry.”  
  
“Try and keep me here,” Kris challenges, and even though they both know Adam could reach out and pin Kris, keep him where he is and devour him as easily as breathing, Adam stays on his side of the bed and smiles at Kris' pale back as he hops into the shower.  
  
Kris shuts the door after himself and Adam gets up and boots up his laptop. He has five emails, all from the UVA. He opens them one after the other. Taken separately, they don't really mean anything, but together . . . Adam looks at them again.  
  
We tried to warn you, the first one says.  
  
Now nothing you can do will stop us.  
  
We're going to take action.  
  
We promise, you will be sorry.  
  
Death to Fangs. Death to Fangsluts.  
  
Adam clenches his teeth, forwards the emails to Lane and opens up a new dialogue box. He types furiously for a few seconds, then hits send. While he's busy, Kris comes out of the shower and sinks down onto the couch next to Adam. Kris curls into Adam's side and wraps his arms around Adam's waist. “Who're you writing?” Kris asks, tucking his head into Adam's shoulder.  
  
“Jared Padalecki,” Adam explains. “He Made me. He'll have to come see me soon. I'll introduce you two.”  
  
“Okay,” Kris agrees easily, even though Adam's sure he understands the significance of that offer. “You told him about the threats?”  
  
“Yeah. He likes to keep tabs on me. Usually that's pretty easy, I'm in the media practically every day. And he's a really great friend. But I think we can use his advice at this point.”  
  
“Then the threats are getting worse?” Kris asks, sounding unconcerned and blasé, and Adam knows all too well what that really means.  
  
“I don't want you to worry about it, but yes. If the UVA is serious, then we need J's advice as fast as possible,” Adam sighs.  
  
“Advice is free,” Kris nods. “Do you have to be anywhere this morning?”  
  
“This morning? No,” Adam shakes his head, and sets aside the laptop. “But I have a talkshow taping tonight. Chelsea Handler, I think. And before you ask, you're still coming with me. I'm not going to leave you here alone when we're getting death threats.”  
  
“Okay,” Kris agrees. “Not like more time with you is a bad thing. Besides, I'm sore in places I didn't know could be sore.”  
  
Adam grins at him and wraps arms around Kris, hugging him back finally, and pulling him more fully into his lap. “Yeah? Tell me about it. I promise I'll kiss it better,” Adam coaxes.  
  
They spend the rest of the day lazily making out on the couch, TV on in the back ground, with a short break in the middle of the afternoon for Kris to eat. Adam kisses the taste of maple syrup out of his mouth, and Kris' lunch gets abandoned halfway through in favor of more kissing. They're the perfect, lazy-slow kinds of kisses, too, the sort that make him warm without the burning need for more.  
  
After a while, Kris lays his head on Adam's shoulder and they doze, until Adam's phone goes off at four and he lays Kris out on the couch to start getting ready to leave.  
  
“No, come back,” Kris mumbles.  
  
“Come with me, then,” Adam laughs, voice soft.  
  
“Too far away,” Kris sighs. “Hurry back.”  
  
By the time Adam's got himself looking presentable, hair perfectly styled and eye makeup the way he likes it, his clothes significantly more put together than the sleep pants and old t-shirt he's been lounging in, Kris is more awake and has put on a dressier shirt than before. Adam's eyes narrow. “That used to be mine,” he points out.  
  
“I know,” Kris nods. “I like wearing your old clothes. It's—it's sorta romantic, you know?”  
  
Adam beams at him. “You're adorable.”  
  
They hold hands in the limo on the way to the studio. Lane calls them ridiculously cute, then smacks Adam on the shoulder with her clipboard and yells at him for not telling her sooner that the threats were escalating.  
  
* * *  
  
The taping goes perfectly. Adam's band welcomes Kris backstage, and when it's time to go on, Kris promises to stay in Adam's dressing room until the song is over. Adam leaves him with a kiss and a smile and a squeeze to his hand, then hurries off to sing.  
  
“This shouldn't take long,” Lane tells Kris before she shuts the door. “He's only doing one number, and then the show ends.”  
  
“It's cool,” Kris promises. “I'll just chill in here. Not like it's a hardship or anything, this is a really nice dressing room.”  
  
Lane laughs at him, but shuts the door and heads down the hall without another word.  
  
Kris sits, waits. Someone knocks on the door, and he calls out, “Come on in, it's open,” and the last thing he remembers is the grinning face of a furious brunette before the world blacks out.


	3. Bruce Willis Never Looked This Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I may have made up anything geography-related in this chapter. Including one-way streets. Just go with it? Or, like. Pretend traffic laws have changed in the not-so-distant future?

Adam comes off stage in a rush of adrenaline and euphoria. The song had gone perfectly, and Chelsea had personally asked him to come back again, and the interview had gone as smoothly as any interview he's ever done, without a single probing question about fangs. He bursts into his dressing room, shouting, “Kris, baby, come here, I need to kiss you!” It's glaringly apparent that Kris isn't there, though. Adam instantly sobers, turning around the dressing room and sniffing at the air. Kris was here, until very recently. There's another scent too, rich and earthy and sweet, and Adam thinks it smells like one of the girls who'd greeted them at the door.  
  
He starts hunting down the corridors, but he and Kris had been led all over the studio before the show, so he can't pinpoint where Kris had gone after leaving the dressing room. At some point the band gets involved, and then Chelsea Handler herself is running down the halls, snapping at PAs and shouting that someone had better find Adam Lambert's boyfriend before she did something they were going to regret. At that point, Adam puts a hand on her shoulder and they mutually decide to go wait somewhere else until they calm down.  
  
Three hours later, and they still haven't found Kris. Adam shifts around and pops the bones in his neck, a human habit that relieves his tension enough for him to concentrate. “All right,” he declares. “I'm calling Jared.”  
  
* * *  
  
Jared gets the call at four in the morning. “Better be good,” he mumbles, looking over his shoulder at the lump in the blanket. “And it better be quick.” He flips open his cell and grunts out “Hello?”  
  
“Jay. It's Adam.”  
  
“Shit. Tell me.” Jared gets up and pulls on his pants over his boxers, belt hanging open as he walks out onto the hotel balcony. He looks out toward the place where the sky is lighting up, then the other way, toward the West Coast and California, where Adam needs him.  
  
“Kris is gone.”  
  
“I'll be there.”  
  
“How long, Jay?”  
  
Adam won't say it, but Jared can hear in his voice how much he needs him, how much he needs someone to lean on and take the weight off of his shoulders.  
  
“I'm in Texas,” he says, wondering how much he should explain about Jensen and deciding fairly quickly now is not the time. “I'll be there by tonight.” He looks back into the room and watches Jensen breathe, the tiny movements and little noises he makes as he sleeps. He doesn't want to leave Jensen, but he needs to go to Adam. Blood takes precedence over seduction. “Before ten. I promise.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I might have company.”  
  
“Okay,” Adam acknowledges. “I can—I'll get a room ready.”  
  
Jared hangs up the phone and goes back inside, does up his pants on his way to the bed. He pulls the blankets down and brushes his fingers across the bite mark on Jensen's neck. He's leaning over to place a kiss on Jensen's forehead and brush back his hair, but Jensen's eyes flutter open before he can. “Hey,” Jared says, voice soft.  
  
“Hey,” Jensen says back. “What's going on?”  
  
“I have to go to California,” Jared says. “I have family who needs me.”  
  
“Okay,” Jensen nods. “When are we leaving?”  
  
“No, I—you don't have to come. I wouldn't ask you to do that,” Jared shakes his head.  
  
“You didn't ask,” Jensen smiles. “I offered. Besides, it's mid-season hiatus. What else have I got to do?”  
  
“Well, I'm really not going to say no,” Jared smiles back. “Okay. We leave in half an hour. You have everything you need?”  
  
“You can just buy me anything I don't have already,” Jensen points out. “I'm ready when you are.”  
  
* * *  
  
Kris wakes up to darkness. “Okay,” he mumbles. “This is—this is not good.” Shit. He's been kidnapped. Adam is going to freak out. “Wow. You have no idea what you just did,” Kris laughs into the dark.  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” a voice sighs. “That's what they all say.”  
  
“No, really,” Kris says. “You don't even know.” Adam's going to find him and reign down fury and wrath on whoever these people are. He adjusts his position, and realizes-- “Hey, you tied my wrists too tight. My hands are all pins and needles. You're gonna do permanent damage if you don't loosen the ropes.”  
  
“Are you—did he just tell us how to kidnap him?” the first guy asks someone.  
  
“I think he did,” a second voice says, sounding stunned.  
  
“Also? I'm pretty sure there are better ways of blindfolding someone than to put a hood over their eyes. Because if I didn't have some common sense, I'd totally have taken it off by now. My hands are in front of me.”  
  
“Oh my god,” the second voice laughs. “Helpful shit.”  
  
“Shut up,” the first guy says. “You just like him because he agrees with you.”  
  
“And what's wrong with that?”  
  
“We're kidnapping him. We're not supposed to like him.”  
  
They turn a corner and Kris frowns under the hood. “Hey, guys? I'm pretty sure we're going the wrong way.”  
  
“What?” the first guy snaps.  
  
“We're on Vine Street, right?” There's silence and Kris sighs. “Vine Street is one-way between Melrose and Wilshire. One-way going South. You're going North.”  
  
“How does he know that?” the second guy stage-whispers. “He can't know that, how does he know that?”  
  
“The turn onto Vine from Venice is quite distinctive,” Kris explains. “Except it was going the wrong direction this time. You really ought to turn around. You're either going to get in an accident or pulled over, and then how are you going to explain me.”  
  
It's completely silent when the van gets jerked around so it's driving the other way. Kris decides not to comment when they take the long way out of West Hollywood.  
  
* * *  
  
The cell they toss him into is surprisingly roomy, although Kris is less than pleased to be thrown around like he's a side of beef. Or a sack of potatoes. Or—or some other thing you toss around without thought. They do take the stupid hood off when they get him inside, though, and untie his hands—his fingers are purple, and it hurts—but those are the only concessions to comfort. There is no bed, no place to sit. Just a bucket in one corner and a blanket in the center of the floor.  
  
“Don't get sick,” a female tells him. “We don't have the time or the energy to waste on caring for you.”  
  
“Okay,” Kris nods solemnly. “I promise not to get sick.”  
  
“Good,” she says, completely missing the irony of his statement. “Now go to bed, it's past lights out.”  
  
Kris is plunged into darkness. Instead of shutting up like he's probably supposed to, Kris lies on his back in the middle of the cell, using the blanket as a pillow, and sings. He sings every annoying song he can think of, from childrens songs to Men Without Hats. He's in the middle of the second chorus of “Safety Dance” when someone shouts at him to shut up. Kris just smiles.  
  
* * *  
  
Jared pulls into Adam's driveway at ten thirty-seven pm, Pacific Time. He wouldn't have made it this soon, except for the fact that they lost two hours crossing time zones, and because Jensen's truck went a whole lot faster than it looked like it did. He's barely put the truck in park before Adam is out the front door and stumbling down the drive to him. Jared gets out and wraps Adam in his arms.  
  
“It's going to be okay,” Jared says, voice low enough that only Adam can hear. “We're here, now, and together, we can solve this. Okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” Adam breathes. He leans heavily against Jared for a moment, then straightens. “Jay, you'll have to introduce me to your friend,” he says, smiling with practiced ease over at Jensen, who looks confused and a little hurt by their hug.  
  
“Right. Jensen, this is Adam Lambert, rock god and very close friend,” Jared begins. “Adam, this is my—this is Jensen.”  
  
“Oh, is that how it is?” Adam grins cheekily at him. “I'd introduce you both to my Kris, but he's not here at the moment, obviously.” He elbows Jared. “And don't think you're off the hook about that little slip, there, we're totally talking about how awesome this is later. And I get to tease you, a lot.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Jared laughs.  
  
“It's lovely to meet you, Jensen,” Adam says, switching gears and playing the part of gracious host to a T. Jensen nods at him. “If you two would follow me, I've got a room set up for you. You can settle in, then come down to the living room and we'll talk.”  
  
“Same room as last time?” Jared asks, hoisting both his and Jensen's overnight bags out of the back of the trunk.  
  
“Of course. I know how much you love the East Tower.” Adam leads them inside.  
  
“East Tower?” Jensen asks.“Yeah, I dubbed it that after the last time I stayed here. It's the only room with a bed big enough for all six feet four of me,” Jared explains.  
  
“I see,” Jensen nods.  
  
“Jen?” Jared says, stopping a moment and putting their luggage down. Jensen stops too, and looks at him levelly. Adam takes the bags and makes a discreet exit.  
  
“It's really none of my business, Jared,” Jensen shrugs. “You two obviously have history.”  
  
“We do. I met him a few decades ago, and we've been friends ever since,” he explains.  
  
“You're more than just friends.”  
  
Jared is pleased that Jensen doesn't put the question on the end, but still. “Not anymore,” Jared assures him. “I don't do that, Jen. I don't two-time anyone, and I don't lie about being available when I'm not. Adam and I—our relationship is complicated and difficult, but believe me when I say, we are only friends.”  
  
Jensen stares at him for a moment, then nods. “I believe you.”  
  
* * *  
  
The truth of Jared's words sets in when Jensen sees Adam's only made up one room for the both of them. It's easier after that; they settle in and Jared takes Jensen's hand and leads him back downstairs to the living room. Adam's curled up under a blanket on one end of the couch, looking down the length of the sofa like he's seeing something that isn't there.  
  
“A,” Jared calls.  
  
“Jay,” Adam sighs, looking up. “I'm just—I'm so tired, Jay. I didn't realize until you came.”  
  
“It's okay, Adam,” Jared says, sitting in the chair across from Adam and pulling Jensen down into his lap. He can smell Jensen's blush, but he ignores the urge to bite in favor of focusing on Adam. “I'm here now. What have you tried?”  
  
“We searched everywhere for him at the studio, and I sent my Weres out to try and track him, but no one can scent anything, there were too many people going in and out all day. Handler wants to make heads roll, but we can't figure out if it was an audience member or someone on staff. Hell, it could even be someone on my staff. I've got feelers sent out, but unless someone finds something soon, or if they send a ransom note, I just don't . . .”  
  
“Hey, that isn't happening. We're not giving up. You got any idea who grabbed him?”  
  
“UVA, probably,” Adam sighs. “They're the ones sending the emails.”  
  
“Okay,” Jared nods, making a note to ask about the emails later. “Their headquarters is right here in LA, right? Let's go have a friendly chat with them.”  
  
“Guys,” Jensen says suddenly, “you can't just walk into the headquarters of the UVA.” They both stare at him. “Seriously. You're both fangs. They’ve got precautionary measures and security guards. What you need is to call in the professionals before you both get yourselves killed.”  
  
“Is he suggesting hit men?” Adam asks the room at large. “I didn't think of that. It would certainly take the heat off me, and I wouldn't have to come out as fanged that way—and hey, how'd you know I was fanged?”  
  
“Seriously, dude? It's not that hard to figure out, particularly if you know the art of misdirection. And no, not hit men. How would that help, they'll just execute Kris before you can get close to him. I meant the FBI. They deal with kidnap cases all the time, and the UVA is a national group. Call them. Embrace the normals' way of dealing with things. It'll earn you goodwill and it'll cut back suspicion on your status.”  
  
“He's good,” Adam says, looking Jensen over carefully. “Can I hire him onto my publicity team?”  
  
“Not unless you're hiring me, too,” Jared laughs. “I'm keeping this one.”  
  
“Adam can't hire me, I already have a job. And you're keeping me?” Jensen asks, rolling his eyes. “Really? Is this a thing with you guys? All possessive pronouns and growly statements and too much PDA too soon?”  
  
Adam shrugs. “Actually, that's a Jared thing. I'm told I'm very standoffish.”  
  
No one keeps a straight face on that one for long.  
  
* * *  
  
Somewhere around midnight, Adam opens up his email to field any concerns from his band and his and Kris' mutual friends. He answers the emails from Monte and Tommy (his has lots of exclamation points and swearing) and from Alli and Brad and a group one from Brooke's email representing all his dancers. He answers them en masse, telling everyone that he's contacted the authorities, that help is on the way, that most likely it's the work of the UVA and that no, Tommy, he is not going to rip out Chelsea Handler's throat for letting her security be so lax, and no one else is either.  
  
Just as he's getting ready to close the window, he notices a new message pop into his inbox. Unthinking, he clicks to open it. Instantly, images of Kris fill his screen. One of him bound on the floor of a van, another of Kris looking small and helpless on the floor of a small room—cell, Adam thinks—and before Adam can even register what he's feeling, the laptop's exploding on the other side of the room in a shower of component parts and a few half-hearted sparks.  
  
“Adam, what--?” Jensen frowns, startled and confused by the sudden outburst.  
  
“Motherfuckers,” Adam spits. “I am going to fucking kill them. All of them. No fucking survivors.” He feels the rage bubbling, feels where his fingernails are digging into his palms, feels the scream of anger and frustration and helplessness surge up and tear free.  
  
The next thing he knows, Jared's there, glaring down at him, in the middle of saying, “Shit, bitch, don't freak the fuck out on Jensen, man!”  
  
Adam shuts his eyes and forces himself to calm down. “Sorry,” he finally manages to grit out. “Sorry, Jay, and sorry, Jensen, but fuck--”  
  
“I think there were pictures,” Jensen murmurs from somewhere behind Jared, and Jared stiffens.  
  
“Aw, shit, man. Fuck, okay, what's the plan, then?” he asks Adam.  
  
“I'm going to kill them,” Adam says simply. Jared nods.  
  
“Um, not to put a damper on sweeping plans for revenge, but that's probably not the best option. Not if you want to keep your anonymity and fangdrogeny. You need to chill out, trust that Kris is still alive, and call in the FBI,” Jensen says, level and calm. It's actually probably the best thing anyone could have said to him, Adam reflects.  
  
“What? Jen, I know you think it's a little extreme, but Adam's perfectly within his rights to--”  
  
“Yeah, within my rights, maybe, but Jensen is right,” Adam sighs, sitting up. “If I want Kris back, and I want to keep my lifestyle and my career, I need to do this right. Human-right, not Vampire-right. Jensen, call the police.” Adam turns to Jared. “He's right, Jay,” he says. “It needs to be above board. I need to behave not like a wronged A-Vamp, but like a man who's boyfriend has been kidnapped. And I really need to not be under suspicion of murder. I've been handling this wrong from the start. I need to fix that. And I need to get him back in one piece.”  
  
After a long moment, Jared nods. “Okay, kid. I get it. But it's not how we did things in the old days.”  
  
“I know. But that's not an option anymore. Fangs are out of the casket, and not above the law, even if it would be hard to prosecute one of us. Damn, Jared, I still need your help, though,” Adam admits softly.  
  
“You'll always have that,” Jared promises.  
  
* * *  
  
Kris is guessing it's his second full day there when he hears the voices outside his cell. It's mostly a woman. She sounds mature but not old, zealous but not crazy. Which probably makes her more dangerous, Kris muses.  
  
“You did what?” she hisses. “I can't fucking believe this.”  
  
She argues with the two men guarding him, and a third man Kris doesn't recognize by voice yet, until she finally leaves, her heels clicking down the hall. Mostly the argument had consisted of the woman arguing that they can't just go around kidnapping people, seeing as it's a felony, and she's always run the UVA as a protest group, not a terrorist cell.  
  
“We're going to have to prove her wrong,” the third man says, voice low. “She's flying back to Portland tonight. In two days, we'll make him an example. Then she'll see that my ways are better.”  
  
Kris wants to snort at that, but he's actually fairly concerned as to what exactly the man means by “example.” He breathes, deep and even, and decides the best thing to do is wait for his chance to escape.  
  
* * *  
  
Agent Seacrest of the FBI is oddly friendly and ridiculously cheerful. He is also one of the most competent G-men Adam has ever met.  
  
“Okay, I need access to your email accounts, and I'm going to have to ask you some questions you're probably not going to want to answer, but I can almost positively guarantee that this was the work of the UVA,” Ryan explains. “We're already planning a sting operation, but this will actually give us the clearance we need to go in a little earlier than we were hoping. I am going to need your cooperation in order to get in there, though. You should be receiving a ransom demand in the next twenty-four hours, and we'll need you to go along with the demands.”  
  
“Of course,” Adam nods. “Anything I can do to help get Kris back.”  
  
“Right now, I need you and your—um. Your friends,” Ryan pauses, eying Jared and Jensen until Adam nods, then continues, “to let us handle things. Go get some rest, try and relax as much as you can. We'll contact you if we hear anything, or if we need you. I'll send someone to ask you a few necessary questions in a few minutes, but then you really should try to rest.”  
  
Adam appreciates the carefully phrased suggestion. “Thank you, Agent Seacrest,” Adam sighs, then turns to Jensen and Jared. “You two should go try and get some sleep,” he tells them. “I'll do the same once I'm done answering questions.”  
  
Jared nods, understanding Adam wants time to himself, and takes Jensen's hand to lead him down the hall to their bedroom. “You know where to find us,” he says.  
  
“But don't,” Jensen calls over his shoulder. “I plan on having very loud sex in the next few hours, so unless you like to listen—”  
  
Jared growls and yanks him into the bedroom, Jensen laughing all the way. Adam smiles fondly, then turns to assure Seacrest, “I'm almost one hundred percent sure he was kidding about the loud part.”  
  
Seacrest still looks disconcerted, but he takes it in stride and directs Adam to the study, with the desktop computer and sitting area. “Agents Cook and Gokey should be in shortly,” he says before he ducks out to manage the rest of the FBI team.  
  
It isn't long at all until the promised agents show up. “I'm Dave,” the taller one says, grinning. Then he rolls his eyes when his partner clears his throat. “I mean, I'm Agent Cook of the FBI, and this is my esteemed colleague and partner, Daniel Gokey,” he corrects himself.  
  
“Agent Gokey,” Gokey corrects again, and doesn't smile, just stares at Adam. “Are you fanged?”  
  
“Now really, Agent Gokey,” Agent Cook chuckles, sounding more amused than annoyed. “That's no way to begin questioning.”  
  
“How would you start?” Agent Gokey demands.  
  
“How long have you known Mr. Allen?” Agent Cook asks.  
  
“A matter of months, Agent Cook,” Adam answers graciously.  
  
“Just Cook, please. Agent Cook was my father,” he jokes, and Adam smiles along with him. Agent Gokey does not seem to approve, but he's not protesting.  
  
“Where did you meet Mr. Allen?” Gokey demands.  
  
“We met on a Thursday. There was a benefit concert, and he was wearing that ridiculous pink plaid shirt,” Adam confides.  
  
“You were dating?” Cook asks.  
  
“Yes,” Adam nods. “And before you ask again, you may assume whatever you like about my fangs, but I am not going to answer that question. You both probably know the answer anyway.”  
  
Cook nods, and Gokey has the grace to look embarrassed. “This is probably not news to you, but the UVA has recently progressed into terrorist acts. From kidnappings to one particularly memorable bombing of a fang-friendly bar. They've crossed a line, and we intend to do what we can in order to stop them. It's important that you understand the risks to this entire operation. We cannot guarantee that you'll get Mr. Allen back. And we can't guarantee we'll manage to bring the organization down.”  
  
“I do understand,” Adam nods. “It's why I agreed to be a part of it. I have no intention, Agent Cook, Agent Gokey, of simply standing by and letting you do all the work. I will do all that I can to insure that the UVA is stopped, and I will do more than anyone believes possible to see my—to see Kris safe again.”  
  
Gokey turns to Cook. “Did he just—is he saying he's going to--”  
  
“I didn't hear anything but a promise to comply, Danny,” Cook says quietly.  
  
“Agent Gokey,” Gokey grumbles under his breath, but he lets Adam's statement slide without further comment.  
  
“Any other questions, gentlemen?” Adam asks. He thinks he likes these two, despite Gokey's by-the-book attitude.  
  
“When did the threats begin?” Gokey asks, and Adam tells him, explains about deleting the first few, about not thinking it was anything until suddenly it was something. He also gives them Lane's contact information, and the passwords and usernames for both his fan mail and his business emails. He doesn't mention he has a personal email, and Cook manages to distract Gokey when he tries to ask.  
  
When they're finished, Adam goes to his bedroom and stares for a while at the place on the bed where he'd curled around Kris and slept for the first time in years.  
  
* * *  
  
Adam doesn't sleep—doesn't expect to, doesn't need to, doesn't want to. But he does lay in his bed and press his face into Kris' pillow, breathing deep, trying to imprint Kris' scent even further into his memory. As if he could ever forget.  
  
Somewhere around eight o'clock in the morning, someone knocks on his door. He gets up reluctantly, then moves faster as he lets himself think about getting Kris back. He finally opens the door to find an FBI agent there, somber in a black suit and sensible heels.  
  
“Morning,” she says. “I'm Agent Samantha Ferris.”  
  
“Hello,” he replies cautiously.  
  
“Cook and Gokey have already left, and Seacrest is setting up a base for us close to the UVA HQ. When you're ready, we can head downtown and join them,” Agent Ferris informs him.  
  
“I need to dress,” Adam decides. “And someone should get Jared, make sure he knows what's happening. I'd like him to come with me, if it's possible.”  
  
“Of course,” Agent Ferris nods.  
  
“If you'll excuse me?”  
  
“Go ahead, Mr. Lambert,” she agrees.  
  
Once he's alone, Adam calls Monte. Tommy answers. “Tommy, is Monte around?”  
  
“Not up yet,” Tommy answers.  
  
“Why are you up?” Adam asks, frowning. Tommy is not a morning person.  
  
“Full moon last night,” Tommy says, sounding a little petulant. “I was babysitting. Haven't slept yet.”  
  
“Sorry, I haven't been tracking lunar cycles,” Adam apologizes. Tommy always babysits for the Pittmans during a full moon. Sometimes Adam helps out, but lately he's been preoccupied with Kris.  
  
“Guess you've had other things on your mind than remembering your bandmates' schedules,” Tommy jibes, but Adam can hear the smile in his voice.  
  
“You know how it is. Head over heels, and all you can see is up your own--”  
  
“Yeah, you know what, you're actually on speakerphone, and Ariel just walked in the room,” Tommy interrupts quickly.  
  
“Morning, princess,” Adam coos.  
  
“Love you too, jerk,” Tommy mutters, but Adam can hear Ariel squealing in the background. “You called for a reason, yeah?”  
  
“Right. The FBI is here. We're getting Kris back today, or not at all,” Adam tells him.  
  
“You're letting the Feds handle this?” Tommy sounds incredulous, and really, Adam can't say he blames him.  
  
“Don't you ever check your email? I'm keeping an eye on it. The instant I think they're gonna let things go sideways, I'm in there and extracting myself,” Adam says, voice soft, so Ariel can't hear, or won't listen.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Tommy agrees. Adam can see the way his head bobs. “Be careful. I don't wanna have to send out resumés again.”  
  
“Yes,” Adam agrees, snorting. “That would be horrible for you.”  
  
“Fuck off, bitch,” Tommy grumbles, and Adam hears Ariel scolding Tommy for his language in the background.  
  
“Now really, Tommy,” Adam puts in, “you know better. You just warned me off the same sort of behavior!” It's good to laugh, especially when he knows it might be the last time he gets to do it for—well. A very long time. “I have to go, Tommy. Give the girls a kiss for me.”  
  
“Sure thing, babyboy,” Tommy agrees.  
  
“I'll see you later, glitterbaby,” Adam shoots back, determined not to choke up at the ridiculous nicknames.  
  
“Bye,” Tommy says and the phone clicks off. Adam sighs, then moves to the closet to pick out his clothes for the day.  
  
* * *  
  
About an hour and a half later they make it downtown. Seacrest is holding court in what looks like a commandeered catering tent. The first thing he does when Adam, Jared, and Jensen arrive is show them an email Adam's fan mail account received the night before.  
  
“Make an example?” Jensen asks. “That can't be good.”  
  
“Not so much,” Seacrest agrees. “You understand what that means, Mr. Lambert?”  
  
Adam nods. At the very least it means bodily injury. Probably it means death. “How long?”  
  
“Traditionally, they'll do it mid-afternoon, when the sun is hottest,” Agent Seacrest answers.  
  
“So we need to get to him before then,” Adam states.  
  
Agent Seacrest looks at Adam carefully. “I cannot authorize anyone to attempt a rescue, Mr. Lambert,” he says, voice careful. Adam hears what he's implying, the unspoken but you aren't under my command, and if you go in by yourself . . .  
  
“I understand, Agent Seacrest,” Adam acknowledges. “Can you tell me anything about the situation?”  
  
Agent Seacrest runs through the basics, guards, where they're stationed, the probability of an underground portion of the complex, how tight they believe security to be. Most of it isn't terribly problematic, except for the very publicly stationed guards. Adam can't kill them, but he's not sure there's another option to get him inside.  
  
Once Agent Seacrest has run through everything he can tell them, Adam steps away as Jared and Jensen discuss strategy with the agents. He looks at the door, and smiles. Who's the last person you expect to walk into the headquarters of a group determined to eradicate Vampirism? Why, a known target of said organization, of course. He takes a breath, then very calmly walks across the street, up the steps, and inside the building.  
  
* * *  
  
Kris figures he's about three hours away from execution—or whatever they're going to do to make him an “example”—when he realizes something sort of ridiculous. The room he's locked in has a door that swings inside. Which means the hinges are on the inside, where Kris can get to them. Kris grins, and starts tapping at the hinges, to see how hard it's going to be to take them apart.  
  
Five minutes later he has the door dismantled and all he has to do is wait for the all clear, then go. He shakes out his shoulders and reflects that really, they should have taken the change in his pockets, too, when they took his wallet and phone.  
  
It's been quiet for long enough that Kris decides it's now or never. He pulls the door open slowly, checks the hall, and steps out, pulling the door back into place behind him to buy him some time.  
  
He grins when the next few hallways are empty, then starts worrying, because surely it shouldn't be this easy, even taking into account the obvious incompetence of some of the members of the UVA. He's about to duck into an empty conference room and try sneaking out a window when he hears that voice. Adam's voice.  
  
He's shouting something about letting him see Kris right now, something about proof of life, something about not caring if he brings the wrath of the entire vampire community to bear on the UVA, and Kris can't actually take it anymore, can't stand being so close and not being able to see, to touch.  
  
“Adam!” he calls, and it's a matter of seconds before Adam's standing in front of him, sweeping him into his arms and burying his nose in Kris' neck. Kris wraps his arms around Adam's neck and lets himself be scented, held. “Adam, we have to keep moving, the—the UVA--”  
  
“God, Kris, never letting you out of my sight again,” Adam moans against Kris' skin.  
  
“You don't have to, but we need to get out of here,” Kris points out. “Come on, there's a conference room, I thought maybe the window?”  
  
“Okay,” Adam nods, pulling himself away. “Okay, yeah. Good. Good thought, window.”  
  
It's a little late, though. The UVA has the hallway filled with members and recruits, shouting something about getting the filthy fang and his fangslut before they get away. A few of the recruits are looking sick, but most of the faces are angry, or scared, and Kris knows enough to realize that means the crowd is dangerous.  
  
Adam starts pushing his way through the people toward where Kris had pointed, and at first the crowd parts, not understanding what's going on. Then someone yells, “Don't just stand there and let them escape!” and the entire mob of them crushes in.  
  
Someone roars, and it takes Kris a minute to realize it's Adam, the roar the sound of an angry vampire pushing people away as he hauls his Chosen through the crowd to the conference room. Except Adam doesn't have a good enough hold on Kris' hand, and Kris finds himself lagging a little behind, then a lot behind. Kris shoves and elbows and claws his way through the masses, gets into a rhythm of kick-swing-jerk-elbow. After what seems like an eternity and mere seconds at the same time, Adam turns, shoves three people out of the way, and screams for Kris.  
  
“Here! I'm here!” Kris shouts, using the elbow he's shoving into someone's face to catch Adam's attention. Adam smiles at him, wide and feral and toothy and before he knows quite what's happening, Adam's got hold of his wrist and he's being pulled into the conference room and then pushed out a window that was either conveniently open or that Adam somehow forced when Kris wasn't looking.  
  
He lands wrong, feels something crunch and twist in his ankle as he stumbles away from the building. He's about to go sprawling—and how romance novel is he going to get today, anyway?—when someone catches him around the waist and pulls him back. Kris turns in the arms and beams up at Adam. “Knew you'd come for me,” he breathes, just before he's being kissed. It's hard and fast and dirty, by no means the most polished and perfected kiss they've shared, but it's amazing, Adam's mouth and his hands and his face, and being so close, and having those teeth scrape across his mouth—it's all wonderful. Kris sighs happily and shifts up onto his toes to get closer. Or, he tries, anyway.  
  
“Ouch—oh, ow,” he whines into the kiss, and Adam stops, pulls away, looks down.  
  
“What did they do to you?” he demands.  
  
“Oh, no, I landed wrong when you threw me out the window, wasn't paying attention to that, I guess, and I must have--” Kris never finishes, because Adam kisses him silent and sweeps him up into his arms when Kris is all kiss-dazed and blinking. “Oh,” Kris says, looking over Adam's shoulder at the ground. “This is nice, too.”  
  
“Hmm,” Adam hums, half agreement and half displeasure that Kris allowed himself to be hurt at all. “Not letting you out of touching range for a good month,” he grumbles, and Kris is pretty sure that's supposed to be threatening, but it really, really isn't.  
  
“You know, Lane's gonna have your ass if you try taking me on stage with you,” Kris points out. “I, for one, would really rather you kept that part of your anatomy.”  
  
“Oh, Lane won't settle for my ass,” Adam sniffs. “She'll take something much more valuable. My heart maybe, or my soul. She's been threatening soul-removal for a few years now.”  
  
Kris laughs at that, then tucks his head into Adam's shoulder when they round the corner, and he sees the array of federal agents and large black SUVs waiting for them. “You called the FBI?” he asks, voice soft in Adam's ear.  
  
“I wanted you back,” Adam says. “Jensen thought this was the quickest, least likely to get one of us killed way.”  
  
Kris frowns. “Jensen?”  
  
“Apparently, my Maker has a new Chosen,” Adam says, nodding toward where there are two civilians standing in the middle of a group of suits. “Jared's the taller one. Jensen's the one with the green eyes.”  
  
“Jensen's smart,” Kris decides.  
  
“Really?” Adam quirks an eyebrow.  
  
“He knew enough to keep you safe,” Kris points out.  
  
“My safety was never a concern,” Adam laughs, and Kris realizes vaguely that they're headed for the waiting ambulances, not for the cover of the open-air canopies.  
  
“Yeah, exactly,” Kris says, frowning against Adam's neck. “He kept you safe even though you didn't know you needed it. I like him already.” Adam laughs at that, and Kris puts up a token struggle when a pair of paramedics come jogging up. It's Adam, though, who argues the entire way to the ambulance about whether or not Kris should make the ride on a gurney or in Adam's arms.  
  
“Mine,” Adam finally snarls, and the paramedics sigh, but shut up.  
  
They're pulling out when a short man in an impeccable suit appears, almost out of nowhere. “Mr. Lambert,” he smiles. “Found Mr. Allen, I see?”  
  
“Yes, Seacrest. The UVA is all yours. And I promise I didn't kill anyone,” Adam flashes a vicious grin.  
  
Seacrest—Agent Seacrest, Kris guesses—doesn't seem fazed. “Right. I'll take it from here. There'll probably be a press conference tonight to explain the whole incident. You should watch, I think.”  
  
“We'll see,” Adam says vaguely. “That'll be all.”  
  
Kris thinks it's a little rude to dismiss the Agent who just helped you get your boyfriend back, but Adam's clearly distracted, watching the paramedics work on Kris' foot. “Thanks, Agent Seacrest,” Kris says when Adam doesn't seem about to add anything to his dismissal.  
  
“You're welcome, Mr. Allen,” Agent Seacrest says. “I'll leave you to it.” He disappears as quickly as he came.  
  
“All right, Mr. A--”  
  
“Kris, please,” Kris interrupts. “Please, call me Kris.”  
  
“Okay, Kris,” the paramedic agrees. “I think we're going to have to take you to the hospital for x-rays, but nothing's popped out of place, at least. They'll probably want to keep you overnight, just to make sure there are no internal injuries, but I don't think you'll have to be there too long.”  
  
“Thanks, man,” Kris nods.  
  
“No problem. We're gonna make sure there's no one else needs our attention, then we'll get on our way,” the paramedic's partner says easily.  
  
“Cool, man, thanks,” Kris says again.  
  
“Can't you give him something for the pain?” Adam demands.  
  
“Only morphine, and he's not complaining loud enough for us to put him on that without an actual visible injury,” the first paramedic says again.  
  
Adam looks ready to bite someone's head off—literally and figuratively—so Kris chimes in quickly with, “Adam, I'm fine. It barely hurts, I promise. Just if I try to put too much weight on it, okay?”  
  
Reluctantly, Adam nods, then trails his fingers over the bite marks on Kris' neck. Kris shudders as Adam traces the oval of scarred toothprints, and Adam does it again, just to see him squirm. “Have I mentioned I'm never letting you out of my sight again?”  
  
“You might have mentioned something,” Kris smiles.  
  
* * *  
  
The emergency room is crowded and noisy, and despite Adam's protests that they should totally get a private room, they end up waiting in the plastic and pink waiting area. Three different nurses come to finish triage, but when they realize out who Adam is, things move faster.  
  
Finally, Kris gets checked in, and almost as soon as he's laid back in the bed, his entire leg flares with pain.  
  
“Shit,” Kris hisses. “Adrenaline wore off.”  
  
“Baby,” Adam winces, sympathetic. He reaches over and takes Kris' hand. “Squeeze as hard as you like, baby.”  
  
“Okay,” Kris pants. “Shit.” His fingers close tighter over Adam's.  
  
The doctor shows up before too long and immediately calls a nurse to start a morphine drip. “Just for tonight, Mr. Allen,” he explains. “You should be feeling better once we get that set and into a cast. I'll send someone up to do that as soon as we get confirmation. We are going to keep you for the night, just to be safe, but you can go home tomorrow morning, as soon as we check you out.”  
  
Kris nods, white-lipped, and Adam's the one who thanks the doctor, then asks questions while the doctor pokes and prods and pulls at Kris' bad ankle. After a particularly loud whimper from Kris, Adam glares at the doctor, who stops and looks a little sheepish. “Sorry about that. I'd say it's definitely fractured. We'll send you down to radiology in a few minutes so we can get you into that cast.”  
  
The rest of the night is a blur of pain and Adam's blue eyes and radiologists pointing at x-rays of Kris' foot, where there's an obvious break—two of them, actually.  
  
“I'm sorry, baby,” Adam whispers, once Kris is in a walking cast—just as effective as long as he doesn't take it off before they say he can. “It's my fault.”  
  
“Landed wrong,” Kris mumbles. “Not your fault. Would have had to jump out a window anyway.” He stares at the ceiling for a minute, then says, “Morphine is awesome, but you totally need to be holding me right now.”  
  
“Don't think they like it if there's more than one person per bed, Kris,” Adam points out.  
  
“I don't care. There is morphine and love, and you are too far away,” he declares. Adam laughs, but he shifts Kris over carefully so he can get in the narrow bed too. “Much better,” Kris sighs, and turns on his side so he can bury his face in Adam's shoulder.  
  
Adam wraps his arms around Kris, one hand cupping Kris' head and stroking the nape of his neck with his thumb. “Think I'm falling in love with you baby,” Adam murmurs.  
  
“Good,” Kris mumbles back, already so close to sleep that Adam wonders how much he's actually comprehending. “Cause I'm in love with you, so that's nice.” Adam pulls Kris closer and watches him fall asleep.


End file.
